


What We Are Owed

by michellemagly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/F, Slow Burn, Time Skips, fleurmione - Freeform, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellemagly/pseuds/michellemagly
Summary: Hermione realizes that she has met Fleur years ago outside of Hogwarts, on her family vacation to France. Fleur/Hermione (time-jumps to adulthood shortly within).





	1. Chapter 1

She does not think of it when she sees Fleur exit the Beauxbatons carriage during her fourth year at Hogwarts. Neither does she think of it when Fleur walks up to the champion’s room when her name is spat from the goblet of fire. She does not even think it when she spies Fleur at Gringotts during her pre-fifth year shopping at Diagon Alley.

No, it is not until the summer before her sixth year at Hogwarts, when she is visiting the Weasleys for an extended stay at the exact same time as _her_ that she realizes: Hermione has met Fleur Delacour before, outside of Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, and Great Britain entirely.

They met while she was on Holiday in France, just after her first year in Hogwarts.

Hermione realizes this over breakfast the second morning into her stay with the Weasleys. She is eating her eggs, pretending to listen to Fleur talk animatedly about the south of France. Ginny is making snide faces behind her back, and Hermione has to struggle to keep a straight face. Something that Fleur says catches her ear, however, “...I spent much of my summers growing up on the beaches there. Oh, how many people I would meet! British tourists would always find their way to the shores, not to mention the odd witch or wizard.” She laughs in that airy, other-worldly way that makes Hermione question the state of her insides. They always churn like she’s just leapt from a great height.

And then, the memory strikes Hermione so hard that her mouth falls half-open. She stares at Fleur, unable to believe that this woman is the same girl she had met on the beach, speaking in broken English and giggling at the broken French Hermione spoke back.

“It – it’s you,” she mutters.

Fleur blinks and halts her story, casting Hermione a curious glance. “Well, of course I am me, Hermione. 

“No, I mean, I spent a summer in the south of France, and I could swear that I ran into you and your little sister on the beach a few times. She...she always called you something else though.”

Fleur’s cheeks color a bright red. “Soeur Fleur, probably. She ran it together like one word when she was little.” But Fleur pauses and studies Hermione more closely. Her eyes scan over her with a scrutiny that makes Hermione flush. “I...that is right. I remember now.” She speaks as if she is really back all those years, reliving the moments on the beach where she and Hermione tried to have fun between the bustle of all the other older, boring tourists.

The beach they had been on was infamous for being a quiet, unexciting place. It drew retired travelers and parents looking for peace. If Fleur had not lived nearby, Hermione guesses she probably would have found another beach to party at. She remembers Fleur, who must have been 14 at the time, running wildly down the sandy beach with her baby sister following close at her heels. She would always be laughing, tossing her mane of glimmering blond hair as she ran, and something about the way she laughed caused Hermione’s insides to go funny even back then.

There had been no one else even near her age at the beach. Of course, she did not even work up the courage to talk to Fleur. It had been Fleur who approached her first.

And Fleur’s cheeks are still a dark red, as she no doubt remembers all of this as well. Hermione wonders how neither of them could have recognized one another before now. Then again, neither of them has been together for any amount of time between then and now. “That was quite some summer,” Fleur says, the same sense of distance still caught in her throat.

“Yes, it was.” Hermione goes back to eating her breakfast because it is too embarrassing to think on those memories for long, especially in a kitchen with Fleur, Ginny, and Molly, and especially while Fleur is here as Bill’s girlfriend. Hermione’s stomach feels odd again, even though Fleur is not laughing anymore.

Ginny glances between the two of them, a furrow forming in her brow. She pushes her plate aside and clears her throat. “Hermione, would you come help me with my arithmancy after you’re done?”

“Oh?” Hermione asks. She cannot remember if Ginny had ever actually enrolled in arithmancy.

Ginny nods her head seriously. “I’m so scared I’m going to flunk my summer studies.”

“Well, alright then.” Hermione quickly finishes her food and brings the plate over to Mrs. Weasley, who raises a brow at both her and Ginny.

“You’ve got weeks left before the term starts, Ginny. It’s not like you to fuss,” she says, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“Oh, it’s a really long problem. I’m not going to get through it just today.” This answer seems to satisfy Mrs. Weasley, and the two of them run upstairs to Ginny’s room. When they get there, Ginny shuts the door and rounds on Hermione. “Spill it,” she says, fixing Hermione with an unblinking stare. Her mouth is upturned in a smirk and suddenly Hermione is feeling very, very nervous.

“I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, _‘ermione_. I want to know what happened between you and Fleur during that summer in France.”

“I was twelve, it was nothing dramatic.”

“It was dramatic enough to make Fleur blush harder than a French harlot,” Ginny says with an air of sarcasm. She flips her hair back in a mocking imitation of Fleur’s own actions. She saunters over to the bed and plops down, patting a spot next to her. Hermione joins, reluctantly, and allows Ginny to rest her head on her shoulder. “Did you two kiss? Should I tell Bill?”

Hermione feels her face grow hot as the memories of that summer flood back. Yes, they had kissed. It had been chastely, though, not the messy snogging that most of her classmates participated in these days. “It’s how they say goodbye, over there,” she says, knowing that this will only spur on Ginny’s imagination.

Ginny cackles wickedly. “Is that what she told you? Hermione, she was stealing kisses from you.”

“It was always on the cheek! Well, aside from the last time.” Hermione touches her fingers to her lips, remembering the faint brush of lips that happened so quickly she had been sure it was an accident. She had said, _goodbye, Sirflor_ , which she had been convinced was Fleur’s name thanks to Gabrielle, and Fleur had leaned in to peck her on the cheek. Except she changed course at the last second. “It was nothing to write home about, though.”

Ginny laughs even more. “You’re saying the part-veela is bad at snogging?” 

“It wasn’t a snog, Ginny. We were barely teenagers. All sorts of kids our age were trying out kissing. Dating meant hand-holding and the occasional peck on the cheek.”

“Oh, so you were dating, now?” There is a glint of pure, delighted evil in Ginny’s eyes.

“No! Not at all! We were friends over the summer, and we lost touch, possibly because I found the idea of sending an owl across the English channel revolting.” Hermione’s heart is hammering. She hears the implications behind this conversation, and it is ringing a warning bell inside her head.

This is perhaps another reason that Hermione has simply refused to remember Fleur: she did not want to question her sexuality. Hermione remembers what little time she spent in muggle school and the cruel, incessant bullying that hounded her for not being popular, for not fawning over every pretty boy, and for not keeping up with the latest fashion statements, and to top it all off, she was a witch, meaning that she could not even lead a “normal” life by their standards. Hermione has never wanted a “normal” life anyway, but she cannot deny that the whispers she endured stung.

They had stung enough so that when Fleur kissed her, she felt as if she had no choice but to ignore whatever rising storm of emotions had clamored to respond to Fleur.

“You think she still fancies you?” Ginny asks, bringing her back to the present.

Hermione shakes her head. “She’s with Bill.”

“Yeah, but that’s before she realized you were her summertime fling.”

“Honestly, Ginny. It wasn’t a fling.” But it does little good to say this, because Ginny is grinning widely at her. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you hate Fleur?”

“I did, but now it’s so much more intriguing to imagine that she could dump Bill for you.”

Hermione snorts. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Did you see how red her face got?”

Hermione remembers the blush on Fleur’s face. She also recalls several lectures from History of Magic regarding prejudices in the wizarding community and how they differ from muggles. Same sex relationships are not something that puzzle magical folk, meaning that she hardly could have been blushing because of shame...unless Fleur has a thing against muggle-born witches, which Hermione highly doubts. “I think you’re reading far too much into this.”

“Hermione, let me have my fun,” Ginny groans, flopping backward on the bed.

“Not if it’s at my expense.” Hermione freezes as she hears footsteps outside the bedroom. Ginny shoots up into a sitting position and grins at her. “Oh shove off,” she mutters.

There is a quiet knock on the door and the lilting tones of Fleur’s voice, “Hermione? Are you in there?”

Hermione is shaking her head _no_ , but Ginny calls out, “Come in!" 

The door opens and Fleur is standing there. She glances between Hermione and Ginny, red still tingeing her cheeks. Ginny sidles off the bed, clearly ignoring the look that Hermione gave her. “I remembered I left my arithmancy book downstairs. I’ll be right back.” She steps around Fleur and disappears down the hall.

Hermione stares adamantly at her feet. Her face feels hot, too hot. She is so blatantly red that there is no way Fleur cannot notice. As if she can read Hermione’s mind, she says, “You are blushing.”

“Well, it is a little embarrassing that I completely misconstrued your name when we were younger, and that I’ve gone nearly two years failing to recognize you.”

Fleur laughs and her stomach plummets. “I failed to recognize you as well, Hermione.”

She glances up at Fleur and sees her smiling. That smile only continues to twist her insides further into a knot. “There isn’t much to talk about. I mean, we knew one another. That’s all there is to say.” She catches sight of Fleur’s odd smile once again. “Isn’t it?” 

“Would you do me the honor of walking with me?” Fleur asks, nodding toward the hallway.

“Oh.” Before she gives an answer, Hermione slides off the bed. She follows Fleur out into the hallway. “Sure.” They walk downstairs together and Fleur opens the back door, gesturing for her to go first. Hermione catches sight of Ginny hiding on the living room sofa, throw pillow stuffed into her mouth to stifle giggling. Hermione furrows her brow at her before turning and walking out into the backyard.

Fleur follows. “Let us walk the fields, yes?” She shuts the door behind them and gestures toward the tall, green grass growing just beyond the fence. They silently cross the yard and begin their walk. Hermione is scared to look at Fleur, so she watches her feet as they cut a path through the wispy grass. “You always intimidated me, you know that Hermione?”

_My face. Why can’t I avoid being cherry red? Oh goodness, my face._ Hermione clears her throat. “You were a Triwizard Champion, Fleur. I can hardly imagine myself as an intimidating figure next to that.”

Fleur laughs and shakes her head. “You had more brains than all four of us did put together. You still do. You know so much, and you never are shy about letting people know so. I cannot help but feel that you will run this country, one day. You are too clever not to.”

Hermione snorts. “Politics is for idiots,” she says, perhaps a little more derisively than she intends. She cannot help it. Cornelius Fudge’s antics have left a foul taste in her mouth.

“Why do you reason that?”

“If a system like the Ministry of Magic can be bent so easily to the whims of a madman like Cornelius Fudge, then I have little respect for it as an institution.” Hermione hesitates before continuing. “The short-sightedness and selfishness found in every one of our laws is deplorable. The Ministry is a wizard-centric organization that has no interest in serving the needs of magical beings outside of wizarding men and women.” Hermione clamps her mouth shut before she begins ranting about SPEW or werewolf rights. She is certain that Fleur probably does not want to hear about it. However, when she catches Fleur’s gaze, she does not see the familiar, wary look or any hint of mocking derisiveness.

“This is exactly what I mean, Hermione.” Fleur’s steely blue eyes lock with hers. “You don’t look at the world like other humans. You don’t see it as exclusively yours.”

Fleur’s features have hardened. Hermione is certain that there has been no physical shift, but the defining line of her cheekbones stand out more. Her nostrils flare, and for a moment, Hermione cannot identify where Fleur’s thoughts have gone. And then it dawns on her. “I forget your veela heritage, sometimes. Is there much discrimination?”

Fleur shrugs. “No one else would call it that.” They walk aimlessly through the field. Fleur gestures at no one in particular. “They laugh when we complain. _Is it so hard to be so beautiful?_ they say. But it is difficult, especially when you receive nothing but unwanted advances. Any time I receive special attention or praise, I must question the motives behind it. I must question everyone who looks at me.” When Fleur says this, Hermione becomes very aware of how she is staring and looks away. “But Hermione, you have never looked at me that way. Not when we were younger. Not when I came to Hogwarts, and not this summer.” Her voice does not carry any tone of triumph or satisfaction from this statement. It is merely Fleur relaying facts. “You look at me like I am a person.”

Hermione, at a loss to do anything else, says, “You are a person, Fleur. You deserve to be treated as such.”


	2. Chapter Two

Hermione and Fleur are sitting up in a tree. Hermione has endured a day of losing horribly at quidditch, and it was not until Fleur walked out into the yard and called her down that she was freed. “Why don’t you come walk with me? There is something I want to show you.”

Hermione had looked between Ron, Harry, and Ginny, shrugging. “I suppose it won’t make a difference if I’m here or not, right?”

Ginny shooed her away as soon as possible.  “We’ll run drills. Go on.”

And so Fleur led her out into the field, all the way to the start of a forest and to a tree with low hanging, wide branches. They climbed up near the top and settled there. Now, Hermione can hardly resist her curiosity over why Fleur has dragged her up a tree.

“So what did you want to show me?”

Fleur chuckles softly and flips her golden hair out of her face. “I don’t really have anything to show you. You just looked miserable playing that silly sport.”

Hermione blushes and stares intently at the tree bark on the branch. It is better than getting caught looking over Fleur’s figure, which she is sure Fleur has already caught her doing more than once. “I prefer football, if I’m honest.”

“Football?” Fleur asks, her accent emphasizing the double O sound in a way that makes the sport sound strangely more enticing.

“It’s a muggle thing. I was never good at that one either, but at least you stay put on the ground for that sport.”

Fleur chuckles. “Are you afraid of heights, Hermione? Is that why you have been so nervous since I asked you to climb up this tree?”

Hermione feels her face burn even hotter and she mentally curses the physical response. “No, the tree is safe. It doesn’t act like it has a mind of it’s own, although I’ve read about some trees that do.” Hermione hesitates a moment, wondering if she should share the fear that prickles the back of her mind. “It’s the lack of control that frightens me more than anything else.” She spares a glance at Fleur, but only for a brief moment.

Fleur is looking her over with a curious expression on her face. Her brow is furrowed and her eyes flit over Hermione’s features, as if evaluating her.

“Is something the matter?” Hermione asks.

Fleur shakes her head. “No. Your answer is just insightful.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Oh, is it time to psychoanalyze me? The muggleborn girl, out of her depth, works to control every aspect of her life in a terrifyingly large new world.”

“You misunderstand my implications.” Fleur shifts on the tree branch so she can lean back against the tree trunk. “You assume I’m thinking about it like a witch or wizard who has never been made to feel an outsider.” She runs a hand through her hair, the golden tresses slipping like water past her fingers. Hermione almost loses the thread of conversation. “There are so many things that seem commonplace to all of them, like obstinate broomsticks, and they never stop to think of how that might affect someone who has not grown up within this culture.”

Hermione wishes that Fleur’s lips would not be so distracting. They ghost over syllables in a way that tempts her imagination to wander from the subject, and she desperately wants to give Fleur her full attention. She feels like a knot is coming loose in her chest. For the first time that she can remember, someone else understands the gross unawareness of the wizarding community. Fleur had already shown her this thoughtful, calculating side, but there is something releasing about simply hearing someone put into words what she had spent five years fighting. “I find you insightful, as well,” she says. Her mouth feels dry.

Fleur giggles. “Don’t you mean what I said?”

Hermione feels her cheeks heat up again. “I - yes. What you said was very insightful.”

Fleur looks at her with a smug grin tugging at her lips. Or Hermione imagines that it must be smug. “What sort of insights do I give you?” She leans toward Hermione, the smile cracking to show her brilliant teeth.

_ She looks positively predatory _ . The thought makes Hermione shiver. “Things to think about.”

To her disappointment, Fleur leans away, resting against the tree trunk again. She crosses her legs and sighs, the smile still pulling at her mouth. “I find it very refreshing to talk with you.”

Hermione hears shouting from a long distance away, “Everyone come back inside! I’ll not be preparing the evening meal alone!” Molly Weasley is calling them all back inside.

“We should go help,” Hermione says, her voice constricting. She feels disappointed somehow, as if this time alone with Fleur was not quite enough, or not what she was looking for. Something felt out of place.

Fleur gracefully unfolds her legs and drops from the tree, landing easily on the ground. She glances up at Hermione. “Do you need help getting down?”

Hermione glances down and swallows. The ground cannot be more than two meters away, but the distance seems greater somehow. “I think I am fine.” She carefully turns around on the branch and lowers herself down, clutching tightly to the limb until her feet dangle just above the ground. She lets go and stumbles as she meets the ground. Fleur’s hands go to her shoulders, pulling her upright again, and Hermione just wants to fall back into her grasp.

“Are you sure you are fine?” Hermione turns to glance back at Fleur and her mind wanders even further. She is so close to Fleur’s lips. It would not be difficult at all to just lean and steal a kiss.

_ It wouldn’t be stealing it at all. Just taking it back from all those years ago. _ She looks away, though, and steps out of Fleur’s embrace. “Yes. Just lost my footing for a moment. Thanks.” She can’t look back at Fleur. “Um...we should get back to the Burrow.”

“Oui.”

Finally, Hermione turns around. She smiles at Fleur, but it feels forced. She tucks some loose hair behind her ear and they set off toward the teetering house. Neither of them says anything until they get back and Molly addresses them. “There you are, girls. Hermione, dear, can you set the table? Fleur, I could use someone else of age in the kitchen.”

“Of course,” says Fleur. She offers one last smile to Hermione before walking away.

Hermione stands in the dining room, unsure of what to do next. Eventually, Ginny approaches her and shoves a tablecloth in her arms. “Come on. Mum asked me to help.” She walks over to a cabinet and pulls out a stack of plates. When Ginny notices Hermione has not moved, she asks, “Did something happen in that tree?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No.”

“Sad about it?” she asks with an exaggerated pout.

Hermione groans and follows her to the table. “We can talk later.”

They set the table in silence, and Hermione does not say much through dinner. Ginny more than makes up for it, engaging in polite conversation with Fleur and making fun of Ron. At one point, Molly turns the conversation to Bill and Fleur’s engagement and Hermione feels her stomach churn. She cannot finish eating after that, and it is a struggle to hold back tears of shame.  _ I am infatuated with Bill’s fiance. What is wrong with me? _

After dinner, Hermione quietly helps clean up, avoiding Fleur’s gaze. She goes upstairs to her shared room with Ginny and sits down in a creaky wooden chair perched by the window. A few minutes later, Ginny joins her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The sun is setting. The room dims. Neither of them make an effort to switch on a light. They sit quietly in blue twilight.

“It’s not funny anymore, is it?” asks Ginny.

Hermione gasps and blinks back more tears, but one still manages to crawl down her cheek. “I just feel so silly.” She hates that she is crying over Fleur. She wishes she could say that she is crying because Fleur is in love with Bill, and that is it, but there is more. She is crying because for so long she assumed Fleur to be some air-headed princess. She had ignored someone so brilliant because of her own pride and other people’s perceptions of her. She feels that same lingering sense of shame burning in her chest, and she cannot help but wonder if there is a tinge of fear within herself as well, fear leftover from her muggle upbringing.  _ Why not have one more reason to be a social outcast? _

“Emotions do that, you know. How do you think I feel seeing Harry run around after Cho year after year?” For once, Hermione cannot hear a trace of sly irony in Ginny’s voice. Her mouth is a thin line and her eyes are unfocused.

“I don’t want them,” says Hermione.

“Tell me about it,” Ginny mutters. She crosses her arms and stares out the window.

They sit quietly until Hermione hears the footsteps of people going to their bedrooms. With a sigh, she stands up and says, “I think I need to be alone for a little while. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Be seeing you,” Ginny calls.

Hermione descents the twisting staircase in near darkness. Everyone has gone to their respective rooms. She sees light flickering under doorways and hears muffled voices as she passes each bedroom. When she reaches the ground floor, she walks into the living room and sits down in a threadbare chair. She rests her hands on the worn wooden arms and runs her fingers over the grooves where the polish has stripped away with time. As the night progresses, the living room plunges into a near total darkness. Hermione is thinking of going upstairs to go to bed when she hears footsteps padding on the stairs.

A floorboard creaks and she realizes someone is walking toward the living room. “Hello?” she calls out.

No one answers, but she hears the shift of fabric. Someone is approaching her. Someone stands before her. She looks up and recognizes a curtain of golden hair falling around her face as Fleur leans over her. A hand cups her face and her heartbeat thuds in her ears. Fleur moves closer and she feels a soft breath against her lips. She holds still, hoping not to disrupt the fragile moment, but Fleur does not close the distance. Her heartbeat continues to drum. Her blood roars in accompaniment, and she does not know what terrifies her more: the thought of Fleur walking away or following through.

Hesitantly, Hermione inches forward. Their noses bump awkwardly and Fleur tilts her head to the side. Hermione feels a soft pair of lips against her own and she breathes in sharply only to exhale with a groan moments later, sinking into Fleur’s touch. Fleur pushes into the kiss, her hand sliding past Hermione’s cheek and entangling itself in her hair.

As soon as it begins, it is over. Fleur pulls away, her breath a little heavier, and whispers, “Bonne nuit, Hermione.” She leaves the living room and Hermione hears the familiar creak of someone walking back up the stairs.

After she is sure Fleur is safely upstairs, she gets up and returns to Ginny’s room. Ginny is settled in bed, a quidditch book open in her lap. “Fleur was looking for you,” she says, not bothering to look up.

“I know,” Hermione croaks. She touches a finger to her lips. They are still buzzing from the contact.

Ginny finally looks up. “Are you alright?”

Hermione lowers her hand and feels herself smile. “I think so.” She flops down on her mattress and pulls the covers up, hugging herself tightly. She hears Ginny snap the book shut. Ginny leans over the side of the bed and fixes her with an inquisitive look. Hermione sighs and a choked back laugh escapes. “I shouldn’t be, but I think I am.” She closes her eyes and remembers the kiss from moments before. This is something she can keep to herself, a small piece of time with Fleur that no one else needs to know about.  _ Well, no one but Ginny, perhaps. _


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Hermione finds herself going for a walk with Harry, Ron, and Ginny out to the bordering village. Mrs. Weasley has asked them to pick up some dinner supplies from the local market. Harry has been handed the muggle money for any non-wizard purchases. Hermione is fine to let him handle the matter. He has a more discerning eye for price than her, anyways. With two dentists for parents in the muggle world, Hermione does not give much thought to the accurate pricing of every-day goods. She spends more of her time trying to keep up with global stock market trends and foreign policy. The fact that Harry is capable of scraping a meal together with a pound and a few pence troubles her to no end.

But this particular summer day is too pleasant to spend it dwelling on numbers and Harry’s past. She yawns and stretches her arms up, catching a laugh in her throat and stifling it before the boys can take notice. Ginny gives her a playful shove and she staggers to the side. They are walking through a tall field of grass, taking the narrow pathway that winds off toward town. It is easily a half-hour’s walk there if not further. They had discussed taking the road and hitch-hiking, but it would be an even longer walk if no one happened to drive past them.

“Just think, we can apparate outside of town next year,” says Ron in a wistful tone. “Skip all this walking.”

“Is that what you’re going to do when you turn seventeen? Never walk again?” asks Ginny.

Harry chuckles at the comment and Ron goes red in the face. “It’d be better to just get the errands out of the way. Leave more time for important stuff.”

“It could be worse,” says Hermione, smiling as she looks up and catches sight of the cerulean blue sky. “The weather is lovely at the very least.” A part of her wants to compare the sky to the color of Fleur’s eyes, but it is not a good match. Fleur’s eyes churn like a dark tempest. Her mind wanders back to last night and Fleur’s lips. Again, a laugh threatens to break free.

Ron and Harry march ahead and Hermione lingers back with Ginny. They let the boys wander ahead a little before Ginny talks to her. “You’re still giddy about it?” They had stayed up for at least an hour talking about  _ the kiss _ and other kisses they had experienced. The conclusion was that Fleur is an extremely talented kisser.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be, like I should be in a panic, but I just don’t want to. I want to enjoy it instead.” Hermione runs a hand through her hair, enjoying the way the wind catch the loose strands as she shakes out the bushy mane.

“Do you think it will go anywhere? Are you going to be her mistress?” Ginny asks in a whisper.

Hermione feels her smile falter. “I...I wouldn’t want that.”

“So you want them to break up?”

“Are you asking because you’re worried about Bill?”

Ginny shakes her head. “Bill can handle himself. I’m more worried about you. You’re not exactly as experienced as either of them in this.”

Hermione frowns. “I’ve dated. I’m some emotionally immature prat like Ron.”

Ginny snorts and Ron glances back at them. “What are you two talking about?” he asks.

“Your ugly face!” Ginny calls back. Ron glares at her then turns away.

“Be nicer to him,” Hermione says. She watches Ron talk to Harry with a scowl on his face, probably complaining about siblings.

“So have you two talked since yesterday?”

Hermione shrugs. “No. I haven’t seen her all day. Well, I saw her run into the restroom this morning. I’ve been avoiding her if I can, honestly. What will I do? I’m going to blush and stammer and everyone will know something is wrong with me. This was all so easy with Victor. I was calm. Collected. I felt in control, you know?”

“You realize that you aren’t giving yourself much control in this situation, don’t you?”

Hermione sighs and crosses her arms. “I know...but it also feels better.” She shakes her head and smiles. “I think that is part of what is so appealing about this.” She catches sight of Ginny’s frown. “But I’m not going to be anyone’s mistress. I’ll just enjoy what I have from afar.”

“You really think  _ from afar _ will cut it forever?” Hermione catches Ginny staring at Harry, her brow furrowed as her gaze travels down his body.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“You can always tell her to shove off,” says Ginny.

“I can speak up for myself, you know.”

Ginny laughs. “The day you let someone suppress you will be a frightening one, indeed. I know you won’t let anyone walk all over you.” She grabs Hermione’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m allowed to worry for my friend, alright?” She rests her head on Hermione’s shoulder for a moment then lets go.

“Your worry is noted.” Hermione cannot quite put into words what concerns her about Fleur. She knows she should be concerned, otherwise Ginny would not be so protective. Instead of discussing it further, they rejoin Harry and Ron and walk with them the rest of the way to town. Once they reach the village, Harry and Ron go to the market for food while Hermione and Ginny are left to wander.

“Go talk about girl stuff or something,” Ron sneers. He has to move quickly to dodge a punch from Ginny.

“Come on,” Ginny says, ignoring Ron to hook an arm through Hermione’s. “We’ve got more important stuff to do anyways.” She leads Hermione off down an alley that cuts through to the heart of the little cluster of village shops. They wander past shop windows, peering inside to briefly scan the muggle items available for purchase.

They walk past a window looking into a small restaurant. Hermione’s eyes widen as she catches sight of Bill and Fleur sitting at a table together holding hands. She ducks down and grabs Ginny’s hand, tugging her out of view of the window as well.

“Ow, what are you-”

“Shh!” Hermione points up at the window sill. “Bill and Fleur are in there.”

“Really? I’d heard they sometimes meet for lunch. I thought it’d be in Diagon Alley though.”

“Ginny, do you have an extendable ear on you?” Hermione is already checking her pockets and lamenting that she did not think to bring one.

Ginny fishes one out of her jeans pocket and cautiously reaches a hand up toward the window sill, threading the string carefully along the edge. Finally, they start catching bits of conversation on their end of the string. “...don’t understand. I thought you wanted this.” Bill’s voice comes in clearly and Hermione’s stomach plummets.

“Not right now I don’t. Bill, it is too soon.”

“If you think it will interfere with your curse breaker’s certification, you’re-”

“I’m not wrong. What comes after the certification? What am I going to do when I need to travel on assignment?”

A silence builds between the two of them. Hermione’s heart is pounding in her chest.  _ What are they talking about? Is Fleur calling the wedding off? _

“I just...don’t think it would get in the way. We’re on the brink of war, Fleur. There isn’t a lot of time.”

“One more good reason. This is not rational, Bill...” The conversation dims as Hermione tugs the extendable ear away from the window sill. Something inside her has begun twisting in on itself, a surge of envy that she did not expect to feel.

“What’s the matter?” Ginny asks.

“We shouldn’t be listening in on that.” Hermione crawls away from the window frame and stands up, brushing the dirt off her clothes.

“I thought you’d be interested, considering the subject.” Ginny follows after her, tucking the ear back into her trouser pocket. “It sounds like Fleur’s coming clean with him, doesn’t it?” Hermione’s face feels hot and she hates that she is going red so easily. She walks clear of the village and wades into the surrounding grassy field. “At least wait for the boys, Hermione.”

“None of it’s rational, isn’t it, Ginny?” She hates how Fleur makes her mood fly all over the place. It is so unlike anything else she has experienced, and the lack of rational thought is maddening.  _ I just want to go one day without moving from elated to humiliated in the span of a minute _ .

“That’s what she was saying about her and Bill and whatever’s going on between them.”

“Yes, well it certainly fits us, too.”

“Hermione, just come back to the village. We’ll find the boys and walk back home together. It will be easier to pretend you’re okay if you’re distracted by whatever moronic thing Harry and Ron are probably talking about.”

Hermione bites her lip as she considers her options. She could always just run back to the Burrow. She could go back to the cafe and listen in some more. She could barge in and confront Bill and Fleur directly… _ No, don’t do that. _ “Ron and Harry can have engaging discussion when the situation calls for it.” Hermione shakes her head as she realizes how completely scattered she must sound. She crosses her arms and walks back toward Ginny, attempting to will the red away from her face.

“You’re blushing,” Ginny points out with a smirk.

Hermione scowls. “I’m in no mood.” They head toward the market and find Harry and Ron hauling bags of groceries out of the store.

“There you are!” Ginny calls, running over to them. “Is that everything mum asked for?”

“Yeah.” Ron shoves a parcel into her arms and Hermione takes a bag from Harry. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know how long the enchantment will last on these.” Mrs. Weasley had given them handmade shopping bags to use that had been enchanted to maintain any food’s freshness. The four of them get back onto the main road and begin making their way out of town. Hermione’s stomach clenches as they pass the little restaurant that Bill and Fleur had been in, but she sees no sign of them.

They are almost to the edge of the village when someone calls out, “Hello Ron, Ginny.”

They all stop and turn to see Fleur and Bill exiting the little cafe. “Hey Bill,” says Ron. Neither him or Harry show much of a reaction to running into him. “How’s work today?”

“Just a nightmare. I should be getting back, speaking of.” He gives Fleur a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you later, love.” He then turns on the spot and disapparates.

Fleur smiles at them. Her eyes look a little bloodshot as if she has not been sleeping...or crying. “It’s good to see all of you. Are you going back to the Burrow?”

“Yeah, want to come with?” asks Harry. He nods in the direction of the field. “It’s a bit of a walk, but it’s a nice day.”

Fleur’s smile flickers. She catches Hermione’s gaze, almost as if she is asking permission. “If you all don’t mind, I suppose I could.” She waits for someone to respond.

“Why not?” asks Hermione, forcing a cheerful note in her voice. “Though I don’t blame you if you decide to apparate.”

“I should take advantage of such lovely weather while I can.” Fleur joins them and they set off away from the village and back to the Burrow.  Harry and Ron begin talking about quidditch. Ginny ends up joining them in conversation, leaving both Hermione and Fleur with nothing to contribute.

She steals a glance at Fleur and catches sight of her dark blue gaze. She shivers and looks away. Fleur herself is a barely contained tempest. The eyes are just a glance into the maelstrom. “Did you have a good time with Bill?” she asks, unsure of what else to talk about at this point.

“No,” says Fleur.

Hermione frowns and looks at her again. “No?”

“We had to discuss something very difficult, as seems to be the case more and more often.” Fleur sighs and runs a hand through her hair, pushing the strands out of her face. Hermione has to fight an impulse to reach up and help tuck the loose strands away.

“I can imagine,” Hermione mutters.

“Oh Hermione.” Perhaps she is imagining things, but she hears the faintest warble of emotion in Fleur’s voice. “I did not mean to...you deserve better than to get caught up in my troubles. I am so sorry.” Fleur smiles and Hermione sees her lips tremble. There is water shimmering in her eyes.

“Consider it behind us, then.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Fleur whispers. The words are so quiet she barely catches them.

“We can talk about this later,” Hermione says, glancing ahead at the others. Ginny is encouraging a loud debate on who will win the next quidditch world cup, but she does not want to take any more chances, especially with Harry’s history of overhearing conversations he shouldn’t. “Tomorrow maybe?”

Fleur nods. “Of course.”

Hermione releases a long breath of air, attempting to let the tension drop in her shoulders. As much as she knows she should not, she wants to catch just a hint of the elation she had felt earlier that day. It would be better than the knot her insides are twisting into.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Hermione pretends to lounge in the living room and read a book, but her eyes skim over the same paragraph for nearly an hour before Fleur comes downstairs for the morning. She catches Hermione’s gaze and nods toward the back door. Hermione nods and sets her book aside. “Fancy a walk?” she asks.

“That would be nice.” Fleur gives her a small smile, and they walk out together before anyone in the house takes notice. They set off into the grass fields, walking a long way without saying anything. Hermione’s heart does not feel heavy. She does not feel tense with worry. She knows that this conversation is not going to go the way she wants it to. She can tell by the way Fleur refuses to let their hands brush together and stares resolutely at the ground. That does not mean she cannot enjoy these last few moments of blissful ignorance.

They walk far enough so that the house is a pinprick in the distance. They come to a stop, standing in the middle of whispering grass, the din of rustling blades drowning out other sounds.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Fleur finally says.

Hermione takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. “Let me guess, for leading me on?”

Fleur nods. “It was so severely wrong of me.”

Hermione nods. The previous feeling of near serene tranquility is gone. Now her stomach feels like a hollowed out pit instead.

“I...I cannot do this with you right now, not while I am with Bill, not while I have so many other things to untangle. You deserve a relationship with someone free to wholly commit themselves to you.”

“It’s alright,” says Hermione. She can practically taste the bitter disappointment on her tongue, but she does not want to let Fleur see it. “I expected this was where we would end up, honestly.” Yes, she did, but she did not expect it to feel like she had been robbed of something. “So you’re going to marry him, then?”

Although Hermione thought it would be a simple question, she sees Fleur’s frown deepen and her brow wrinkles. “I do not know.” They continue walking through the fields. The wind picks up, stirring a cacophonous rush of grass blades sawing against one another.

“Why?” Hermione asks, though she knows it is an entirely unfair question.

Fleur shrugs. “I thought I would be satisfied with him, with the life he could offer.” She crosses her arms, almost as if she is hugging herself. “There are some things I need to think about. Sometimes, you never know what to think of a person until life challenges both of you together.”

Hermione nods. She does not know what Fleur could possibly be alluding to, but it does not matter, she supposes. All that matters is that Fleur regrets what they have done, and that she wants to cease any further flirtations. “I hope you figure it out soon.”

Fleur sniffs and swallows back a sob. Her eyes are red again, and there are tears there. “I hope so too.” She gasps and holds herself tighter. “Hermione, I’m so sorry.”

She wants to step forward and give Fleur a hug, but it seems like the wrong thing to do. “I’m sorry, too.”

Fleur turns and begins walking back toward the house. Hermione does not follow. She stays standing in the tall grass, letting the symphony of shuttering stalks overwhelm and swallow all other sounds. She watches Fleur walk away, her blond hair blending with the yellowing grass until she disappears from sight completely.

***

Years pass.

Voldemort is defeated, but not before Hermione learns loss, not before Hermione, Ron, and Harry spend months drudging through the English countryside on the run, not before they watch Fred, Remus, and Tonks die, not before they have to do the impossible over and over again, and not before Hermione reaches the point where she is prepared to die because her parents have forgotten her, Fleur has disappeared, and the world has demonstrated to her utterly and completely that the people in the margins are the first to die. By the end of it all, Hermione feels like she’s been scooped out from the inside, like someone reached in and carved away all her organs, made her hollow.

She lived so long in a waking nightmare, hoping every day she would open her eyes and that she would be back in Hogwarts, that Dumbledore would be alive, that her parents knew who she was and that they sent her regular owls with her favorite newspapers from home, sometimes with a book tucked in between the sports and business section.

She lived so long wanting it, believing it every time her eyes snapped open from a dream and she gasped in a rush of air, learning how to breathe again every morning, that she would no longer be on the precipice of death.

And when the waking nightmare finally does end, Hermione has no idea what to do.

She sits in the Weasley’s house and looks over a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . There are more exposes written about heroes from the Battle at Hogwarts. Harry, Ron, and Ginny are lounging in the living room with the rest of the Weasley siblings. There is a funeral scheduled for Fred. Angelina Johnson has taken to spending time with them recently. Hermione does not think she has left the Burrow in the last two days.

Ginny drags herself into a chair at the kitchen table and Hermione glances up from the newspaper. “Hullo,” she mutters.

For a moment, Ginny says nothing, then she draws in a breath. “Bill arrives today.”

Hermione folds the paper and puts it down. “And Fleur?”

“Busy with a Gringotts job. Bill’s watching Victorie.”

Hermione is nearly eighteen. It has been three years, and in that time she has gotten no closer to shedding her feelings for Fleur. “I haven’t seen her in ages.” Not since Shell Cottage.

“You know she would have come if she could.”

Hermione turns her attention to the fireplace, which has just burst an angry spark indicative of someone traveling by flue. She presses her lips together in a thin line, then says, “Maybe.”

Someone’s feet thud into the hearth of the fireplace, and a gangly redhead stoops under the low clearance and into the living room. He holds a blonde toddler, who clutches at his soot-covered clothes tightly. Bill Weasley brings a hand up to his bright red hair and quickly dusts it before moving to brush his child’s hair. “There you go, Vicky.” He sets her down and Hermione watches her take in the room with wide, blue eyes. Their dark color matches the deep blue velvet dress she wears. Bill nods at the two of them. “Hullo Ginny, Hermione.”

“Hullo,” Ginny says.

Hermione nods and Bill walks into the living room, Victorie walking after him with clumsy, blocky steps. Hermione turns back to the paper.

“She’s getting big,” says Ginny.

Hermione nods. 

_ She sees Victorie for the first time at Shell Cottage clutched in Fleur’s arms when they arrive at the door. One look at them, and Fleur surges forward, pulling Hermione into a tight hug, the baby gurgling between them the whole time. Seeing Fleur and being held by her is more than she ever expected to feel again. Moments ago, she was ready to die. Now, her heart thunders harder than it has since the summer years ago. When they part, Fleur’s free hand is buried in Hermione’s unruly hair, clutching tightly as she looks her up and down. Her eyes linger on the words etched into her skin on her left arm, ‘mudblood’. _

_ “Who did this?” Fleur asks. _

_ Hermione shakes her head. “Later. Someone’s dead.” _

“Hermione,” Ginny says.

She jolts forward in the chair, gaze refocusing on the Weasley’s kitchen. “Yes?” She turns to see Ginny staring at her.

“We should join the others for the wake.”

“Right, sorry.” She folds the paper and puts it down.

She begins thinking about her parents in the middle of the wake. She sees Angelina crying, reaching out and carefully threading her fingers through George’s callous and scarred hand. Molly is holding Victorie. The girl, not even two years old, looks around wide-eyed. Any time she makes a small noise, Molly brings a hand to her head and goes, “shh,” in a soft and practiced tone. If she offers a hand to the baby, she will clutch one of Molly’s fingers and shake it briefly before losing interest and going back to staring. Hermione eventually looks away and scans the rest of the crowd.

Harry and Ginny stand together, leaning into one another, arms looped and heads pressed side by side. They both sway slowly, probably unaware they are even doing it. Ron tries to catch her gaze every now and then but she looks away when she catches him staring. She knows he doesn’t mean anything malicious by it. There has been a hesitant awkwardness between them since he confessed his feelings at Shell Cottage. They had been laying in a cramped, rickety bed together, pre-dawn light filtering in through a small, salt-encrusted window pane. Ron held her and ran a hand through her hair to help keep her mind from wandering back to dark places. When he told her how he felt, he was confused when she turned him down. To her disappointment, he had asked if it was because of Viktor. When she told him no, he had hesitantly asked, “Fleur?” She had nodded, eyes watering, aware that Fleur was probably rummaging around in the kitchen that very morning, trying to scrape a meal together for everyone.

Ron had held her a little tighter, rested his chin on her head, and whispered, “That’s rough, mate.”

Now they keep a respectable distance. Hermione does not know if being near him will hurt him more, and she can guess that Ron does not know how to approach being  _ just friends _ but she is certain he will get there.  _ Just not right now. He needs space. _

So Hermione stands at a distance. The Weasley family take turns speaking about Fred, sharing their favorite memories about him. She does not make any move to talk. She did not know him well enough to speak for him, she reasons. There is a disconnection about being there, about knowing that she has no blood relation to this man, to any of the people there, but being treated like family anyways. She is not an orphan like Harry. Her parents are alive and well, or she assumes so. She could have put into place some sort of tracking method to find them when the war finished, but when she had wiped their memories, she decided it best to leave no magical trace between her or them. She knows they have gone to Australia to open a new private dentistry clinic and she knows their new assumed names, but that is it.

They are the only family she has left, and though she considers everyone at the wake part of her extended family, knowing that she has severed her own parents from her life so completely is a fatiguing thought. She knows, for one, that they would never have approved of her choice. She has made up her mind by the end of the wake.

_ I suppose it’s time to go to Australia _ .

She begins making travel arrangements that evening, though she waits until her eighteenth birthday officially passes before booking a hotel. Sydney has a good magical community from all she has read about, but being the adult age according to muggles will make things go more smoothly.

The Weasleys throw her a small party the day she turns eighteen, and she plans her departure for three days later. Ginny sees her off, gives her a hug and whispers, “Good luck,” before pulling away and giving her one last smile.

“Thanks.” Hermione nods, takes a step back, then turns on her heel and vanishes on the spot, materializing in a crowded hotel lobby seconds later. She stumbles forward, clutching her handbag tightly as she gets her bearings. People rush past dressed in robes and muggle clothes alike. She makes her way to the counter, checks in, and offloads most of the items from her enchanted bag into the safety of her hotel room. When Hermione looks outside the window, she takes a deep breath and tries not to be disheartened by the swarm of people walking along the busy downtown Sydney streets. She can see the opera house in the distance, and she remembers the classical music her mum and dad used to play on the radio every morning. The same old tunes want to tap out through her fingers. A number from  _ Carmen _ comes to mind.

She shakes her head and slowly exhales a held breath.  _ Time to get to work _ .

Hermione leaves the room with nothing but pocket change and the various identifications needed to move around the city with ease. She pushes through the crowded lobby again and stumbles out onto the city streets. Outside, the sun is high in the sky and a faint breeze carries the smell of the ocean all the way from the docks. Hermione looks up and down the street, having no idea what to do first or where to go. She combs her hair back with her fingers and begins descending the hotel entrance steps.

Something catches her eye. There is a flash of gold that reminds her of summer and the sound of rustling dry grass. She looks across the street and sees a woman standing there, tall and elegant. Her blonde hair is wrapped into a bun. Her blue blazer and skirt stand out in brilliant hues. She is scanning the crowd with a sharp, intelligent gaze, looking for something, or someone, and not finding it. When their eyes meet Hermione all but forgets to breathe because the most unlikely has happened.

Fleur Delacour is in Sydney, Australia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has some big, complex feelings in it, and I guess it took me a while to sort through how I wanted the narrative to handle those.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this direction and what you’re looking forward to seeing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hogwarts, 1996 - Hermione’s Sixth Year**

Hermione is eating already when Ron and Harry join her in the great hall. She has eggs, mashed peas, and a slice of toast piled onto her plate. Harry and Ron sit down next to her, causing the bench to groan for just a moment while they lean forward and scrape food onto their plates. The owls arrive with the post in a flurry of screeches, hooting, and the soft “thunk” of mail hitting the table. A school owl drops Hermione‘s assortment of newspapers in front of her. Hedwig comes to visit Harry but does not bring him anything. He feeds her a bit of his food anyways. Ron picks up a letter and sighs.

“Mum’s written me.”

They have been at Hogwarts for three weeks with relatively few interruptions, thankfully. Hermione does not expect the peace to last long. “They probably miss you,” she says.

Ron opens the letter and unfolds the parchment, smoothing it out on the table. As he reads, his forehead crinkles and his mouth draws into a tight frown. “What is it?” she asks.

Harry glances at Ron as well. “Everything alright?”

Ron leans back from the letter and lets out a low whistle. “Wow, didn’t see that one coming.” He arches his brow, shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t see what coming?” Harry asks. “Your parents join a commune or something?”

“Join a what?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Ignore him.” Harry is snorting into his cereal. Ginny and Dean sit down across from them and he immediately stops laughing. “Go on, Ron. What is it?”

Ginny glances at Hermione and then to Ron. She peers over the table at the letter. “Is that from Mum and Dad?”

Ron hands it over and sinks further into a slouch, eyes unfocused as he clearly continues to think through the letter contents. “Read it yourself. I don’t trust my eyes anymore.”

Ginny leans over the table and picks up the letter, skimming it quickly. Immediately, her gaze darts up to meet Hermione’s with a wide-eyed look. “What?” Hermione asks.

Ginny tosses the letter back at Ron. “Fleur and Bill called the wedding off.”

“You’re joking,” says Harry, Dean muttering, “Blimey,” at the same time.

Ron shakes his head. “I mean, mum was never keen on Fleur, but her and Bill seemed like everything was smooth sailing, you know?” Ron glances from Ginny to Harry. “They seemed happy to you, right?”

Hermione stares down at her plate, desperate not to incriminate herself in any way, but her mind is racing and she cannot help but wonder if she should be apologizing, screaming for joy, or vomiting. The coil of self-loathing is winning out over all the other thoughts echoing in her mind. She places her hands in her lap to avoid anyone noticing her white-knuckled grip.

“They wouldn’t have let us see that, Ron,” Ginny says. “We’re probably best to leave it alone. They’re adults. They can sort out their own lives.”

“I’m not saying they can’t. I’m just...shocked.” Ron releases a long sigh, muttering a curse in the process. “She say anything about this to you, Hermione?”

She glances over at Ron, desperately hoping her face isn’t bright red. “Why would she?”

Ron shrugs. “Dunno. You spent an awful lot of time talking with her this summer.”

“We talked about law and wizarding rights,” Hermione spits out, trying to sound appropriately offended.

It seems to work, because Ron arches his brows and leans back from her. “Okay. Forget I asked.” Everyone eventually returns to their breakfast, but Hermione just pushes her food around with her fork until it is time for classes.

Later that day, Ginny finds her hiding in the library. Hermione is not at her usual table, but is instead hiding in one of the corner armchairs. She has a book about arithmancy open in her lap, but she is not reading it. Ginny passes by the corner once before backing up and occupying the armchair next to her. “Thought you’d be around here,” she says, nudging Hermione’s foot with her own.

Hermione nods. She turns a page in the book, but her eyes refuse to fixate on the words. “I feel awful, if it’s any consolation,” she mutters.

Ginny waves a hand. “I’m happy they split. If Fleur was not crazy about Bill, it’s good she spoke up about it before the wedding.” She pauses and Hermione finally eases the book shut. “You going to write her?”

Hermione shrugs. “She made it clear she doesn’t want a relationship with me. I don’t think her splitting up with Bill would have changed that.” She wants to write to Fleur. She wants to ask if it’s her fault, if Fleur would want to come see her, if there is actually anything between them. The infatuation is stupid, she reasons. They spend barely half a summer together and she cannot stop thinking about her. “So...should I write her?”

Ginny flips open her bookbag and pulls out a quill and parchment. “If you care about her, you can write just to ask if she’s alright.” She holds out the paper for Hermione. “Can’t do any harm now, can it?”

Hermione bites her lip. She does not know if Fleur will appreciate her writing or just be annoyed with her. Ginny gives the paper a little shake and she snatches it up, smoothing the parchment against the book cover as Ginny readies the quill for her. “I’ll help you write it,” she teases.

Hermione takes the quill and groans. “I’ll need it.”

Ginny laughs and scoots closer to her. They spend close to an hour scratching out a letter that is barely more than a paragraph. Hermione writes that she has heard the news about her and Bill, that she is sorry if Fleur is going through a difficult time, and offers to lend an ear if Fleur ever need talk. After she writes those few sentences, however, she immediately taps her wand to the letter and wipes it clean.

“Rubbish,” she mutters. “I sound absolutely predatory.”

“Hermione,” Ginny breathes with a groan. “You’re not being - That’s not how - So what do you actually want to write?”

Hermione thinks for a few seconds, then writes, _‘Do you want to talk? -Hermione.’_

As she folds it up, Ginny nods and takes back her quill. “Right. Didn’t think you’d be a woman of so few words.”

“Are you going to come with me to the owlry or not?”

Ginny grins and eases out of her armchair. “Of course. Don’t want you to chicken out and burn the letter before you even send it.”

Hermione looks down at the folded parchment with _‘Fleur’_ printed out in tight, neat handwriting. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Honestly, you deserve to try and get to know her better. This isn’t being predatory. This is trying to be a good friend. If it leads to something else in the future, how would you even know?”

“You’re so mercenary,” Hermione says. They walk to the owlry together, Ginny making her way through a range of jokes about the French and Veela alike. Hermione rolls her eyes at the worst ones, but is glad to have her company once they make it to the top. She selects a school owl she knows to be reliable and ties the letter to its leg. Before she can think better of it, the owl flaps its enormous wings and takes off out a window. “Well, no turning back now.”

“Maybe she’ll never reply and you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Hermione watches the owl fly over the forest. Her chest tightens at the thought. “That would be tragic.”

Fortunately, the owl returns by the end of the week. The letter comes after her usual newspapers are dropped off. It flutters down and lands neatly on top of the front page of the Prophet. Her name is written in neat cursive on the front. Hermione snatches up the letter and breaks the wax seal on it while the owl lands by her plate and pecks at her unfinished eggs. Unfolding the letter, she sees one word written at the top of the parchment, _‘Hogsmead?’_ Underneath it, Fleur has penned her name.

Hermione digs a quill out of her school bag and quickly writes, _‘Yes,’_ followed by the date of their next trip. She folds the letter up and crosses out her own name, writing _‘Fleur’_ underneath it. She seals it with spellotape and re-ties it to the owl’s leg. With a soft “hoot” it takes off with the rest of the post owls. Hermione’s heart is hammering.

“What was that for?” Harry asks.

Hermione picks up the Prophet with one hand and reaches for her pumpkin juice with the other. “Just answering a question.” She takes a long drink from her pumpkin juice and Harry goes back to his breakfast.

A foot taps hers from under the table and she looks up to see Ginny sliding a scrap of paper toward her. She picks it up and unfolds it to see that Ginny has scrawled out the word, _‘So?’_

She pulls out her quill again and scribbles, _‘Next Hogsmead trip,’_ and slides it back to her. Ginny slips the paper off the table and glances down to read it. She smirks up at Hermione and crumples the scrap of paper, shoving it into a robe pocket. Blushing, Hermione shakes out the front page of the paper, pretending to read it closely. Her mind is racing, though, spinning up one fantasy after the next about what Fleur could possibly want to meet and talk about in Hogsmead.

The day the actual Hogsmead trip arrives, Hermione is nervous. Ginny comes to her room and helps her get ready. It’s little things like fixing her hair, deciding whether or not to offer to buy her a drink. Maybe she shouldn’t try anything at all. Maybe she should just try to be friends with Fleur.

When the time comes to walk down to the village, Hermione joins the others and walks with the group down from the dormitories and along the castle pathway into the small village. Harry and Ron detour to the joke shop and Hermione excuses herself. She waves goodbye to Ginny and Dean and wanders farther down the main road. Fleur never replied to her confirmation, but she assumes that they will run into one another eventually. If not, then it will be easier to shed her feelings for her.

“Hermione.”

She turns her head and catches sight of Fleur standing on the side of the road, under the awning of one of the cramped shops. She smiles and Fleur smiles back. She is wearing a loose skirt and button-up blue blouse, the sleeves rolled up at the elbows. She is as radiant as ever, Hermione cannot help thinking. They walk over to one another and pause awkwardly in the middle of the walkway. Hermione glances back toward the busy village, but Fleur says, “Let’s walk, shall we?”

They meander down the roads, moving toward the outskirts of the village. Once they are far enough away from the crowd, Hermione asks, “It’s not my fault, is it?”

“No,” Fleur says immediately. She stops and gives Hermione with a hard stare. “Hermione, no. I am my own woman, am I not? I chose to call it off with Bill because I was not loyal to him. If I am not so deeply in love in love to stay committed to him like he has to me, then I am doing him a disservice by letting us marry.”

Hermione feels her cheeks go flush. “I...sorry.”

The hard lines in Fleur’s face soften. Her shoulders relax and she lets out a sigh. “Hermione, it is alright. I should be the one apologizing to you.” They begin walking again, taking a path out into a small field. “What has happened is the least fair to you.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks. Her stomach is tight with worry. This is not what she expected Fleur to want to talk about.

“I know you have feelings for me.” Fleur pauses and Hermione can feel her own heart hammering in her throat. “But this is where things should end.”

“Oh.” Hermione feels the knot of tension come undone, replaced with burning embarrassment. “Right, of course.”

“I’m pregnant, Hermione.”

She stops walking, looks Fleur up and down again. “What?”

Fleur turns to her with a grimace. “Bill and I fought over whether or not now was the right time to have a child, and perhaps he is not the right person to have a child with but…” Her gaze is unfocused for a moment as she probably remembers a conversation. “I am going to keep the baby.”

“Oh.” Hermione cannot help thinking that Fleur is still so desperately young. “Why?”

Fleur shrugs. “There is so much evil coming into the world, lately. I will work my hardest to fight it. But…” She draws in a deep breath and releases it in a shuddering gasp. “If it comes to war, Bill and I have agreed that I will take the child to France.” She pauses again and crosses her arms tightly. “It is my decision. It is not a rational one, I know this, but I wanted you to hear this from me first, not second-hand through Bill’s siblings.”

Hermione nods. Her insides feel like they have gone numb. “Well, thank you for telling me,” she says. Their whole conversation feels like some twisted fabrication. She keeps expecting to wake up in her dorm. What Fleur has told her is entirely out of her depth of understanding.

“Thank you for listening.” Fleur glances back toward town. “I should go.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

Fleur smiles at her, though she looks sad more than anything else. She takes a few steps backwards. “Probably not.” She turns on her heel and vanishes, leaving Hermione standing at the outskirts of Hogsmead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a little flashback. I love time skips. Sorry. As always, let me know your thoughts and where you'd like to see this go. I love hearing from you guys :)


	6. Chapter 6

**The Horcrux Hunt - Shell Cottage**

Hermione has not seen Fleur since that day in Hogsmead. She stands in the doorway to Shell Cottage with a child in her arms, her face is drawn with worry, eyes wide, and she holds Hermione tight, and everything has been such a frantic rush for so long that Hermione hardly knows what to do when Fleur pulls back and catches sight of the slur that has been etched into her skin. Fleur is standing there, jaw clenched tight with anger and eyes flashing with lightning. Fleur, the one person she knew she would never see again, the one person that she was convinced was gone from her life. Hermione knew she would die before seeing Fleur again.

And yet here she is.

Hermione’s legs feel weak. She tries to deflect Fleurs questions, because Dobby _is_ dead and surely someone else needs more help than her, but her entire body aches and she cannot quite grasp that this is reality, that she is somehow still standing, despite her entire body being wracked with pain over and over just moments ago. There had been a knife at her throat. She could have been just like Dobby.

Bill pushes past Fleur and catches sight of the crowd of people that have arrived outside his cottage. “Blimey,” he says, and runs forward to Ron and Harry.

Hermione feels her legs buckle and her vision goes black for a moment. She feels a strong arm around her, pushing her upright again. Fleur mutters something in French, Hermione cannot quite make it out, but Fleur is dragging her inside. “Come. Bed.”

“But the others.” Hermione can barely fight her.

“Bill has them. You need help.” She steers Hermione into the living room and lets her fall onto a couch before she walks away. When she returns, she is no longer holding the baby. She pulls Hermione up from the couch and nods toward the stairs. “Up we go.”

Hermione lets her take the lead. Climbing the steps is painful. An hour ago her body had felt like a thousand hot knives were repeatedly stabbing her and now she just wants to unravel. But she has to keep going somehow.

Fleur helps her every step of the way. She loops Hermione’s uninjured arm over her shoulder and nudges her forward one step at a time. “Come on. Almost there.” Fleur lets her rest for a moment at the top of the stairs, then steers her into a bedroom, lays her down on an old mattress resting on a rickety frame, and pulls her wand out. “Arm,” she says.

Hermione looks at the wand, then up at Fleur’s face. Her eyes are a tempest. “Why?”

“I am going to fix that...that...aberration.”

She tries to lift her arm, but now that she is lying down her whole body feels weak. Much too weak to do anything else. Her eyes flutter closed for a brief moment. “Fleur,” she whispers. “Fleur, I was going to die.”

There is a weight on the bed as Fleur sits down. She presses a hand to Hermione’s forehead and Hermione feels it caress down her cheek. She closes her eyes again and allows herself to savor the warm touch. “You will not. Not while I breathe.” Fleur speaks quietly, but there is a hard edge to her tone that reminds Hermione of thunder rolling in the distance. Hermione watches her gaze dart down her body, down to her arm again. Fleur traces a path carefully with her fingers, lifting Hermione’s forearm up so that she can touch her wand to the skin. She whispers a spell and Hermione feels a soothing warmth creep along her skin. When it fades, Fleur is frowning.

“What?”

Fleur traces her thumb along where Bellatrix had scratched the word _‘Mudblood’_. “There is dark magic in this wound. It won’t fade. Perhaps a professional would do better.” Her eyes are like thunderclouds again. Hermione brings her hand up to intertwine her fingers through Fleur’s.

“It’s alright. Thank you for trying.”

Fleur grips her hand tightly. “They may as well brand _half-breed_ on me.”

Hermione does not know what to say. She is exhausted and can barely move. Her whole body aches. She should be dead, but somehow is not. She wants to pull Fleur down onto the bed and just be held by her, but she cannot even lift her arms.

“What else did those monsters do to you?” Fleur asks. She lets go of Hermione’s hand and brings her fingers up to Hermione’s neck, tracing the bruising grip marks she knows Bellatrix has left. Fleur tugs the collar of her shirt down, and she gasps when she sees the cut from Bellatrix’s knife. Hermione can barely feel the pain anymore, but she knows it is there.

Fleur tries healing this one, too, but judging by the French curses she is muttering, it was not a success. “Oh Hermione.” Her hand presses to Hermione’s neck and then slides back up to her cheek. “I thought this war would destroy us both.”

“It could still.” She would cry if she had any energy left. Fleur is leaning over her, watching her closely. Hermione cannot help staring back at her, taking in every small detail that she did not think to make note of before. “Can I ask...why you’re here?”

Fleur smiles and breathes a short laugh. “Perhaps serendipity?” Her other hand has found Hermione’s and their fingers lace together. “I brought Victorie by to visit Bill. We were going to return to France tomorrow.”

“How are things there?” She has not heard news from other countries since she went on the run with Harry and Ron.

“The people are worried.” Fleur sits up, letting one hand slide down to rest against Hermione’s collarbone while the other stays firmly in Hermione’s grip. And the state of the ministry is encouraging the racists and dark arts sympathizers to be more bold than usual.” She releases a sigh and shakes her head. “For a while, I considered coming back to England. There is so much hatred here. Who am I if I do not try to fight it?” She pauses and glances at the doorway. “But there are ways to fight in France. There is a need for good people everywhere.”

“So you’re leaving again?” Hermione asks.

Fleur nods. “But not until you are recovered.” She leans over Hermione, bringing their faces so close that their noses bump and Hermione’s breath catches in her throat. “You are to this day the most astounding person I have met.” They are staring at one another. Hermione waits. Her heart hammers in her chest. Fleur leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Hermione’s lips. “You had better get out of this alive,” she mutters, then kisses Hermione again, pushing their intertwined hands into the mattress, her free fingers clutching tightly at the front of Hermione’s shirt.

The door downstairs creaks open and Fleur pulls away. Hermione gasps at the loss of contact and Fleur chuckles in a way that Hermione can only describe as _bitter_.

“Would that we could have all the time in the world,” Fleur sighs. She stands up and straightens her clothes. “Get some rest. I will be here when you’re awake.”

Hermione wants to ask her to stay, but her eyelids are drooping, and despite just sharing her second kiss with Fleur, she cannot summon the energy to get out of bed and pursue her. She slumps back against the pillows and allows her eyes to finally stay closed. She feels a blanket fall over her body and Fleur whispers, “Bonne nuit,” much like she had the night of their first kiss.

Footsteps echo downstairs and Hermione listens to Fleur pad out of the room. Victorie starts crying downstairs, but Hermione is soon tumbling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Hermione wakes with a start, but a tangle of limbs keeps her pinned to the bed. She feels panic rising in her chest before she catches sight of Ron’s bright red hair in the faint dawn light. He’s on her right, curled up against her. Hermione glances to her left and sees Luna draped across her as well. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

Luna stirs against her. “Harry was here, too,” she says.

Hermione feels tears pressing at the corner of her eyes. “Thanks.”

Luna nods against her shoulder and sits up. “We didn’t want you to be alone.” She looks around the room and yawns. “I think I might go see where Harry’s wandered off to.” She stands up, stretches, and leaves as quietly as she can.

Once she’s out the door, Ron stirs next to her. “You want me to leave you be?” he mumbles.

Hermione thinks of being alone. Her thoughts wander back to the Malfoys’ and what happened there. “Stay. Talk to me about something.”

Ron nods and pulls her into a tighter hug. “I’ll tell you some more wizard fairy tales.”

And when he runs out of those, they talk about nothing in particular until the silence lulls between them long enough for Ron to say, “I reckon I fancy you.”

Hermione has been expecting an admission like this. Instead of freezing up or twisting out of his arms, she quietly says, “I know.”

The minutes tick by. “Do you fancy me?”

Hermione sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ron.”

“It’s alright.” They lay together in silence for a little longer before he asks, “Is it Viktor?”

Hermione laughs and feels the tears begin to crawl down her cheeks. “No, Ron.”

This is how she comes out: lying in bed with one of her best friends, holding back tears as best she can and trying not to think about how she will handle leaving Shell Cottage and Fleur behind, knowing that death is still a very real possibility in the months to come.

When they finally go downstairs, most of the others are gathered in the cramped little kitchen. Fleur is sitting in a chair positioned by the window. She has a blanket draped over her shoulder, covering Victorie as she breastfeeds. Hermione pauses at the sight. Fleur catches her eye and smiles. “Did you sleep well?” she asks.

Hermione nods. Ron clunks in behind her and sinks into a free chair at the table, pulling a plate of pancakes over to his side. Bill places a pitcher of milk on the table and Ron says, “Thanks,” before going back to piling his plate high. He turns around and nods to Hermione. “Want some?”

“Oh.” She walks over to the table and takes a seat. “Thanks.”

Ron nods and proceeds to drizzle syrup over his pancakes. “Anytime.”

Hermione glances back to Fleur, but she is looking out the window, so Hermione turns her attention to the food instead. She wonders if her and Fleur will have a moment alone again, or if she, Ron, and Harry will have to run away from Shell Cottage. It is probably not wise to linger. She does not want to be responsible for leading Death Eaters to Fleur.

The time flies by, and before she realizes it, the time has come for them to depart. Fleur gives Hermione a hug goodbye and whispers, “Stay safe,” as they pull apart.

Hermione smiles even though she feels nothing but dread. “I’ll see you later.”

Fleur smiles back. “I hope so.”

Her, Harry, and Ron all link arms and disapparate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. NOW we can return to Sydney and all the promising stuff about to unfold there. Excited? :) Also, I'm always happy to hear your thoughts on how this chapter went. Writing somber, slow stuff has always been hard for me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sydney, Australia - Nearly A Year Later**

There she is, Fleur Delacour, standing across the street in downtown Sydney, Australia, and Hermione has not seen her since Shell Cottage. She is wearing a blue blazer and matching pencil skirt. Her blonde hair is done up in elegant twists. She looks beautiful and breathtaking, and Hermione’s heart is pounding harder than it has in ages.

She thinks at first that maybe she should disapparate and pretend she was never on the street. That way she never has to deal with the fact that Fleur is here just out of arm’s reach while there’s no bloody war going on. There’s no crisis hiding around the corner to interrupt them. It’s just her, Fleur, and the whole continent of Australia for them to get lost in and Hermione does not know if that

Fleur’s eyes find hers, and she knows there is no running.

Her legs carry her into the street. Fleur is walking toward her as well. They meet in the middle and stop short of touching. Fleur is beaming at her and Hermione can feel her own smile come out. All around them the rest of the world is moving, busy foot traffic pushing past like a river flowing over stones. “Hermione, it is so good to see you,” she says, her voice breaking with laughter.

“I...I know. I can’t believe it’s you!” Hermione reaches her hands out but she stops short of touching Fleur. “What on earth are you doing in Australia?”

Fleur shrugs. “Curse-breaking job with Gringotts. They needed extra help. It was a complicated assignment and Bill was free to watch Victorie. I arrived two days ago.” Her gaze wanders down Hermione’s body and back up in the briefest moment. “And how are you? What brings you to Sydney?”

Hermione opens her mouth but then hesitates. “I, well...It’s complicated.”

Fleur nods and then looks around the busy street they are trapped in. “Do you care for coffee? There is a lovely cafe just down the road.”

And because for the last three years all Hermione has ever hoped for is to just have Fleur to herself, somewhere far off and secluded without the world coming to and end, she agrees. “Alright. Um, lead the way.”

Fleur grins and offers her a hand. Hermione takes hold. “Trés bon. This way.” Fleur pulls her through the crowds, slipping between people with a practiced ease that Hermione has not picked up yet. After the war, crowds have continued to make her nervous. This is her first time she has willingly put herself in a place with so many people since the war ended.

They break free of the main road and Fleur takes her down a less busy street off to the side. Hermione feels some of the tightness in her chest vanish. They stop in front of a hole-in-the-wall cafe and Fleur lets go of her hand. Hermione tries not to stare at the flush of color rising in Fleur’s cheeks.

“Shall we?” Fleur asks.

Hermione nods and they go inside, ordering coffees in delicate white porcelain that they carry to a small table just outside the cafe’s entrance. They sit down and Hermione sips at the hot, bitter liquid. She watches Fleur do the same and then turns her attention to the street. The sun is still out and Hermione can smell the sea salt on the wind. She sighs and leans back in her chair.  _ It’s almost too good to be true. _

“So, you have come to Australia,” begins Fleur.

Hermione nods. “I sent my parents here after I decided to help Harry last year.” Fleur sits across from her, porcelain cradled in her slender fingers. She stares down at the cup and brings it to her perfectly red lips for another sip. “I erased their memories and constructed new identities for them. I thought it would be safer. No one would be able to find them or torture them for information. They would have been helpless against a dark wizard, so it seemed like the best decision.” Hermione pauses to collect herself. Before she had come to the decision to send them away, she frequently had nightmares about what Voldemort and his followers would do to them. She would remember the Quidditch World Cup and the way the muggles had been tortured there. She had thought to herself as she wiped their minds,  _ I’m doing the right thing _ . “They should be running a dentist’s clinic somewhere here in Sydney. I just don’t know where.”

“You came to find them.” Fleur puts the cup down on its matching plate with a soft  _ clink _ . “You are going to reverse the magic?”

“I’m going to try,” Hermione says, though Fleur’s words rekindle an old fear she has, one where she can’t get the magic to to undo itself properly or worse: she does and her parents never forgive her. “I just don’t know what they’ll say to me.” She grasps the coffee cup in her hands and nervously taps a finger against the side. She focuses on the incessant noise her nail makes on each impact.

Fleur reaches a hand out and covers her own. Hermione stops tapping and looks up to see Fleur smiling softly. “They will say they love their daughter, and they will tell you how proud they are that you did the right thing no matter the cost.” Her thumb traces over the top of Hermione’s wrist. “I know that I am.”

Hermione draws in a shuddering breath. “I hope I did make them proud.”

Fleur removes her hand. “I am sure of it.”

A silence lulls between them that has Hermione tempted to fidget with her cup again. Instead, she takes a sip and asks, “How have you been?” It feels almost ethereal, like this cannot be an actual plane of existence. She is sitting at a cafe in Sydney, Australia having coffee with Fleur Delacour.

Fleur sighs and leans back in her chair. “I have been alright. Victorie is trying to speak with more than one word.” She smiles again in that soft way. “They say learning two languages at once takes time, even for children.”

Hermione nods and thinks back on the moments she has seen Victorie. The baby had barely started walking at Fred’s funeral. In a few months she would be running around without any help. Then talking in full sentences. “Fleur…” She opens her mouth to say more but cannot find the right words. She closes her mouth and looks down at her half-finished coffee instead.

“Hermione, I know you are here for a very serious reason. I have my own work to focus on, but I am hoping...could we possibly…” Bright red is blooming on her cheeks. “I would like to see you more.” Hermione feels her heartbeat thud faster. “I am hoping you would allow me to take you on a date, if at all possible.”

Hermione archers her brows.  _ I have to have misheard that.  _ “You...want to take me on a date?”

Fleur nods. “It sounds so silly, but we are here together in Sydney and the war is over. Hermione, I...I have not been able to forget how I feel about you.”

The lull of silence returns. Hermione can hear her own heart pounding in her ears. Her hands are shaking, so she lets go of the porcelain and places them on the table instead. She thinks of every possible response. She could tell Fleur ‘no’, say that she’s too busy focusing on finding her parents. She could say that it is inappropriate for them to date, but she knows this is a flat-out lie. She thinks through all the different possibilities, but when she speaks she can only say the truth, “I think that would be nice.” Fleur laughs and it sounds like music. Hermione smiles at her own musing.  _ I’m hopeless when it comes to her, aren’t I? _ “Just give me a day to sort through some things first.”

Fleur beams. “Magnifique.” She pulls her wand from the inside of her jacket and flicks it. A card unfurls on the table with Fleur’s name and an address printed on it. “Here is where I am staying. Give me a ring when you are ready.”

Hermione picks up the card and turns it over. Fleur stands from the table. “Where are you off to?” she asks.

“Curse-breaking. I am not in Sydney on holiday, after all.”

“Oh, right.” Hermione watches Fleur smooth down the front of her jacket. She smiles at Hermione, walks over to her, then bends down to place a soft kiss on her cheek. Hermione inhales sharply, catching the scent of Fleur’s perfume with her standing this close. It’s like wildflowers. Fleur’s lips are lingering on her skin and Hermione’s pulse is racing as those lips graze her cheek gently as they finally pull away. She catches Fleur’s gaze, sees the heated look there that she knows is mirrored in her own face.

“ _ Au revoir _ , Hermione,” Fleur says, and Hermione cannot stop staring at her lips.

As Fleur walks away, Hermione wonders why she is letting Fleur leave, why she has not pulled Fleur into a tight embrace and kissed her breathless.  _ We’re both adults. We’re here in Australia, alone together. Why wait? _ The more rational part of her mind reminds her that both of them are new to what any semblance of a relationship might look like between them. As Hermione watches Fleur walk away, however, she has a harder and harder time ignoring the ache in her chest.

***

She goes back to her hotel room and paces for ten minutes before working up the courage to call the Weasleys on the floo network. Her head appears in the living room and Harry jumps at the sight of her. “Hermione!” he says, tossing aside a copy of  _ The Daily Prophet _ . “How’s Australia?”

“Fine. Perfectly fine. Except I ran into Fleur outside the hotel.”

“Blimey.” Harry slaps a hand to his forehead. “What are the odds?”

Hermione hears Ron speak up outside of the periphery of her vision. “Oh, Bill said something about her taking a curse-breaking job abroad somewhere. Didn’t think it would be in Sydney.” He strides into her view and sits down on the couch next to Harry. Ideally, Hermione would have wanted Ginny to be involved in this conversation too, but she is still in Hogwarts. “So you ran into her right away? Spooky.”

“It was entirely an accident, I assure you,” Hermione says.

“So what happened?” Harry asks.

“I walked out of the hotel and she was across the street. We said hello, got coffee, and she asked to see me again.”

“So when you say that,” Ron begins. He gestures with his hands in an awkward way to indicate for her to continue. They have yet to have an in-depth conversation about the nature of her relationship with Fleur. 

“She asked me on a date, Ronald. Yes.”

Ron smiles. “Right. Congratulations.”

“Look, I didn’t stick my head in a fireplace to get a pat on the back. I don’t know what to do.”

Ron and Harry exchange a look with each other, one Hermione recognizes from their school days when she would mistakenly try to talk to them about homework. “Perhaps just...go on the date?” Harry asks.

Ron shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not like there’s a war on anymore.”

“She has a child in joint custody with your brother,” Hermione says, though even as she rattles it off, the excuse sounds weak. Fleur is not the kind of person to let the different responsibilities in her life bleed over. 

“Well, if that’s going to freak you out enough, then don’t date her,” Ron says.

Hearing him say it is enough to cause Hermione’s stomach to lurch. She  _ wants _ to go on a date with Fleur. She is just terrified that something will happen to prevent it. Things have never worked between them in the past. Why should things fall into place now?

“It’s just a date,” says Harry. “If you don’t want to see her after this, then you don’t have to.”

Hermione nods. Harry is right, but she is afraid that one date with Fleur will be enough for her to spiral head-over-heels, and she is afraid of what might happen if she and Fleur start something like they have in the past and it does not work out. She takes a deep breath and exhales, sending sparks shooting up from the low-burning coals in the fireplace. “Well, I suppose it’s decided, then.” She pauses and both Harry and Ron lean in. “I’m going on a date with Fleur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy I finally updated this. The story comes to me in neat little chunks that need to be bridged together. This is a bridging chapter, for lack of a better word. The next part of the story begins now :D
> 
> Let me know what you're looking forward to or what your hopes might be for a little bit o' fluff to balance out all that angst we've been feeding on.


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